Changes
by lostinquinntanawonderland
Summary: "And if someone had told you that Quinn freakin' Fabray would be the reason why you'd get over her, you would have given that someone fifty bucks for telling the best joke you've ever heard. Then, three years later, when you're a minute away from sleep, you'd suddenly sit up and jolt awake because of a surprising realization—damn, that bitch was right!"
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:**_ Hey, beautiful readers, followers, friends, fellow shippers, and people who clicked this link by mistake. XD Sorry, I know it's been a while and I still have a shitload of multi-chapter fics to update, but things have been so crazy lately. (And it really sucks because I wasn't able to contribute to Quinntana Week. T.T) I haven't got the time (and inspiration) to write, so. _

_I'll be updating them soon, though. I promise. :D You can help me decide which fic to work on first, too (though I already have a good headstart for "Fate")._

_Read. Comment. Most importantly, enjoy. :)_

* * *

**Changes (Chapter 1 of 3)**

Your—erm—"relationship" with Quinn blooms through a very cliché and practical way of communication and, nowadays, courting—texts and phone calls. There were a couple of New York visits here and a handful of New Haven visits there; but Quinn's a very dedicated student while you're having a difficult time balancing your time between working your current job, searching for a better one, and having fun at the same time, so cellphones and Skype will have to do.

After your two-but-really-more-like-six-time thing, it felt awkward at first, especially the first time you've talked after the "experiment".

(At that time, you dialed her number since you've been thinking about calling her for quite a long time without planning what to say and just hoping for the best. You stupidly ended up saying, "Coach is out of McKinley," as an answer to her hello. Thankfully, she didn't tease you for sounding so weird and nervous and simply chuckles before saying, "I heard. You're not thinking about replacing her, are you?")

However, as time passed and as the number of conversations you've shared continued to rise, talking with each other has become a part of both of your routines. (Still, you both avoided talking about whatever happened last Valentine's Day, and that's probably what's making things casual and okay.)

It felt normal, at least to you, until Rachel commented unknowingly about it.

* * *

"So what's up with you?" Rachel simply says while you three, plus Adam, are having dinner.

You glance upwards for a moment to look at the girl in the eye before dropping your gaze back at your plate. "What do you mean what's up with me?"

"You seem… happy these past few weeks."

Her tone makes you drop your fork and raise an eyebrow at her. For a second, she looks kind of terrified, then she turns to Kurt as if she's asking for his help.

"What she meant is," Kurt starts, "you've been… different."

"Different," you echo.

"Uh, you know. You've been smiling more frequently and you're not that terrifyingly cranky in the morning, and it's like you're not acting like you anymore," Kurt says in one breath.

"You don't even call me Hobbit anymore," Rachel adds. "So… What's up with you?"

You stay silent, recognizing that they're right, and that there can only be one answer to Rachel's question.

_Quinn._

She's been the reason why you've always been in a good mood. Like, every single day.

For some reason, that thought made you feel uneasy, but you tried not to think about it. That's because you're sure that it's nothing and that Quinn probably thinks the same.

But she proves you otherwise.

* * *

"This is fun," Quinn says in the middle of one of your late-night calls.

You already know what she's talking about without having to ask her.

You think, "_So, this really _is _something_?" But you only smile and tell her, "Yeah. It is."

* * *

Just a few days after that, the inevitable happened. (Of course, eventually, Brittany would have to pop out of your conversations.)

"Have you been talking to her?" Quinn asks out of the blue.

"Brittany?" Even if you already know whom Quinn was referring to (because, duh, who else would "her" be?), you still say that, just to let Quinn know that it's not a taboo word.

"Yeah," Quinn says slowly.

"We've been exchanging a few texts," you say. "I mean, I've been really busy, as you know, and she's been working hard not to flunk senior year the second time, so that's the best we could do."

"That's good," Quinn states, "right?"

"Q, I'm okay. Really." You say that with conviction because you do know that you already are.

That doesn't mean that you're not in love with Brittany any longer, though. First loves are forever, right? Still, you've been coping really well, and you've gradually accepted that she's just not yours anymore, and that thought doesn't feel that painful as it felt then.

"Do you think she really loved me?" You blurt out.

After a beat, you hear Quinn scoff. "What kind of question is that?"

"It's just… she did get over it so easily," you try to reason out.

"Says the one who broke up with her," Quinn counters.

"But I wasn't the one who had already seen someone else only a little more than a month later." You sigh. "You know I would've waited for her if she didn't date Sam."

After you used his_ real_ first name rather than Trouty Mouth, you realize how much you've changed. You realize that you don't sound like Santana—the old, Lima-Heights-Adjacent-represent Santana—anymore.

"That doesn't prove anything," she answers. "Maybe she just learned something you haven't realized yet."

"Oh yeah?" You raise an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"Like," Quinn exhales loudly and waits a second before continuing. "Like, just because it's real love, doesn't mean it's meant to be."

Your eyebrows furrow as you ponder on what Quinn said. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know, love isn't always right. Even if it's very strong, it can be very wrong at the same time. Or maybe there's just another love that's better than that, like that love is just not _it_ yet, even if it doesn't seem like it."

You blink. "You're saying…?"

"Santana, sometimes love just isn't meant to last."

_Oh._

You stare at the ceiling, sharing a long silence with Quinn. You would've thought she already hung up or got disconnected, but you can still hear the soft whirring of a fan from the other end.

"Quinn?" You utter, finally breaking the silence.

"Hm?"

You wanted to say something like "are you still there?" or maybe goodbye or good night, but you end up saying…

"Would you have loved me?" You mentally slap yourself, but you find yourself continuing, anyway. "If you were her, would you have loved me?"

Your heart races as you wait for her response, and beats even faster when you hear it.

"Question is, what's not to love?"

* * *

If someone had told you three years ago that Brittany wasn't your soulmate, you probably would have pulled the poor guy's tongue just so he could never speak again.

If someone had told you you'd be the one to break it off with her, you probably would have narrowed your eyes as a way of saying, "_Do you even know what you're fucking talking about?_"

And if someone had told you that Quinn freakin' Fabray would be the reason why you'd get over her, you would have given that someone fifty bucks for telling the best joke you've ever heard.

Then, three years later, when you're a minute away from sleep, you'd suddenly sit up and jolt awake because of a surprising realization—damn, that bitch was right!

Now, here you are, out in a field somewhere in Yale, lying on the grass and staring at the sky, just because Quinn's so… _Quinn_. And though you'd never admit it, you actually love it too, even spending time with her in the library. (You'd never tell Quinn that. In fact, you say quite the opposite, things like, _"Fabray, are you seriously telling me that I've spent hours torturing my butt on a train ride just so you could take me to a damn library?"_) Times like these with Quinn are the only ones when you actually feel peaceful, and you can't hate that feeling.

In a way, it kind of forces you to think about things, even things that you hate thinking about.

Like how you've started thinking about Brittany less and less over the past few weeks. And how you've started thinking about Quinn more and more at the same time. And how these two things could be connected or maybe just coincided.

And how you really love spending time with Quinn, like actually being with her and not just hearing her voice, that sometimes you think you can't get enough of her.

And how _this_—your friendship or whatever this is—shouldn't have worked, not in any way, just from the mere fact that she's_ Quinn_ and you're _Santana_. But it doesn't feel fucked up at all.

In fact, it actually feels right.

You feel so happy, elated, and in love with how Quinn looks so damn beautiful under the moonlight. And, being Santana, of course you let your strong feelings take over your senses, so without realizing you're doing it, you take Quinn's hand in yours.

"I love you."

_Well, fuck._

Quinn's head turns so quickly to face you that you think you hear her neck snap. "What?"

Now, she's giving you a chance to take those three damn words back, act naturally, and save your ass and, well, whatever _this_ is.

But, being Santana fucking Lopez, you feel brave, so you don't take it.

"I love you," you repeat, this time looking straight into her hazel eyes.

There are only two one-syllable words that ever broke your heart. The first one you've heard through the phone—Bram. And the second…

"Oh," you hear Quinn murmur. You stay frozen as you wait for the following words of her sentence, which, after a long silence, never came.

You close your eyes, praying that Quinn would say something—anything—besides that, on your way back to her dorm, or before you hop on the train next day, or even a day, a week, a month after that.

But she doesn't.

* * *

**A/N:_ That was short, wasn't it? XD I'll update soon, though. Love you. :D_**


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's note: Hey, guys. I guess this took too long, huh? But here it is anyway, and thank you for sticking with me and my stories. To reward your patience, I've made this one more than twice as long as the first chapter. Yay. XD_

_Anyway, this one's written in Rachel's POV, so expect some Pezberry friendship in this chapter. (It's completely platonic though, sorry.) The next and final chapter will be written in Quinn's POV, and I can write back in Santana's POV for the epilogue or something._

_And I just learned from the last episode that Santana doesn't have an actual room in the apartment, but I "gave" her one in this story, just because nothing's really that dramatic about moping in the living room, so._

_Yeah, that's all you have to know for now, I guess._

_Enjoy and please review. I'd like to know what you think and what else you'd want to see next. _

_Cheers!_

* * *

**Chapter 2 of 3**

You should be enjoying these kind of moments—moments when you and Kurt have the apartment all to yourselves, when you two can watch crappy film adaptations of different Broadway musicals without Santana complaining and saying how _gay_ you can be. (_Santana can be so ironic sometimes_.)

However, you can't help but think about this one question that has bothering you for weeks.

_What the hell is going on with Quinn and Santana?_

You've been trying to convince yourself that it is probably nothing, that you're just imagining things, that your mind is just forcing you to put malice in something that's perhaps meaningless; however, you've seen too many signs for it to be _nothing_.

It's not just the many visits they've paid each other (which are too frequent and costly for just_ friends_ to maintain). It all started when Quinn texted you the night after Thanksgiving.

When you saw her name on your phone, you stared at it suspiciously before opening the message, like you think your phone was just playing tricks on you, because Quinn _rarely_ texted you. (She would send you emails, normally. That cheap chick.)

The message was short, and it read, "When I slapped you, did you feel anything strange?"

You had to take a minute to understand what she was referring to (the night of Junior Prom), and you reply with, "Except for a sharp sting on my cheek, I do not think I have felt anything else. Why did you ask?"

It takes Quinn six minutes (you counted) to answer. "No reason."

But when she mentions something about Santana and apologizing for slapping her during their "intervention", you become suspicious.

The way the two looked at each other like they're the only people in the room—no, in the entire planet—whenever Quinn comes over and the way they always laughed at simple things they said to each other didn't slip past your gay radar, either.

(They disappear every night and come back looking disheveled in the morning, too, every time Quinn's here. Weird.)

Those are not good enough to make any assumption, you know that. Maybe that's what's bothering you even more, though, since you have this feeling that you're almost sure that there really is something between your (then tormentor and now) friends.

_Almost_.

You look at Kurt, whose attention seems far away from the television and who looks waist-deep in thought, too, and you wonder if he thinks the same.

(Then again, his gaydar has never been good for anything, anyway. For Pete's sake, he was even worried that Adam would cancel their date at the last minute, even if it's pretty obvious to everyone else that the guy really liked him. Man, Karofsky even had to fucking kiss him before he realized the bully was not half as manly as he wanted to be.)

"Rachel?" Kurt mumbles slowly, his eyes fixed on the tv, yet it seems like he's looking _past_ it rather than at it.

"Yes?"

"Do you think," he stops and sighs. "Never mind."

"What is it?"

"Nah, it's stupid," he says. You look at him skeptically before shrugging and going back to thinking about your theories about Santana and Quinn.

Kurt lasts only a minute of silence before he finally blurts out, "Do you think Quinn's gay?"

"What?"

"It's just…" Kurt starts. "Nothing."

"No, no, I get you," you say. "I can't stop thinking about it."

"You, too?" Kurt replies, the film playing already forgotten. "I've been suspecting ever since I ran into her and Santana coming out of the same hotel room the day after last Valentine's Day."

You feel your eyes involuntarily widen. "Do you mean that they've…"

Kurt nods. "Judging from the way they looked that time, that can be the only possible explanation."

"I've seen them slow-dancing when I was singing on the stage with Finn, too. But, but, Quinn—"

You stop talking when you hear the door open and Santana walk in.

Well, it seems like she's not walking at all, more like dragging her feet across the floor.

"Santana?" Kurt calls out, and she turns at you two. Santana quirks an eyebrow, trying to be, well, _Santana-like_, but you can see that she's faking it and feel that she's upset about something.

That's new for you because, before, whenever she comes home from New Haven, she's usually in a good (non-sardonic and un-Santana-like) mood and she has this wide grin on her face that she wears for so long it almost hurts your own cheeks.

"You alright?"

"Yeah," you hear Santana exhale a loud breath from her mouth. "I'm fine."

You share a concerned and worried look with Kurt as she continues staggering to her room.

* * *

Days pass, and Santana still doesn't speak more than ten words a day. (She doesn't even say, "Mind your own business, Pretty Pony," when Kurt tells her she shouldn't waste her time in New York working as a bartender; she merely shrugged.) She stopped going out during the day to look for other jobs too. She just spends most of her time sitting on the sofa, staring at her phone that's lying on the center table. She always jumps whenever it vibrates, with so much excitement and hope in her eyes which fades when she reads the name of the sender (who's apparently not Quinn, you guess).

That changes one day, though, and it happens when you and Kurt are just about to leave for your classes.

You see Santana's eyebrows furrowed, her hand clutching her phone quite tightly, when Kurt calls out, "Santana, we're going now. Would you—"

His sentence is interrupted by a loud crash—no, _crashes_.

You both wince when Santana suddenly throws her phone against your living room's paperweight wall (because, really, the phone's fall did more damage to it than its collision with the said wall).

You two are still gaping with surprise when Santana raises a finger.

"Don't even ask."

* * *

At least, after that incident, Santana started spending her time on more active things like, well, _one-night stands_. (_God, she never learned from Mr. Schue's almost-wedding, did she?) _She gets home way past the time her shift ends with a woman. ("_At least, she only brings one at a time, right?"_ _You argue with Kurt._) There are only two things that all of the poor girls Santana has brought to the apartment have in common. One is that they're all hot enough for you and even _Kurt _to consider.

The second is quite predictable; every single one of them is blonde.

(You both think that it's probably because that's _her_ type _like how you and Kurt seem to date only guys who belong in show choirs_, but you'll both figure out soon that it's actually just a Brittany and Quinn thing.)

Thirty-nine nights and seventeen girls later, though, Santana brings the same girl home—for a few nights in a row.

* * *

"Five nights straight, huh?" You smirk at Kurt and use that as a greeting instead of the usual "_good morning_" and "_thanks for making me eggs and toasts_." "And counting, I must add."

"Yeah, hopefully," Kurt mumbles, and you give him a questioning look.

"I swear I heard her scream Quinn's name last night," Kurt whispers after you have sat down next to him.

"Really?" You reply a little too loudly; Kurt presses a finger against his lips. You move your chair closer to Kurt's as you whisper, "I did too—last night and the other night— but I thought I was simply hallucinating."

"I thought so too, but after the fifth or sixth time, I figured there's no denying it."

You let out a silent "tsk" before shrugging. "Maybe the girl's really named Quinn."

Kurt narrows his eyes as if to say, "_Yep, because that's a very likely coincidence._"

"Well, it_ is_ possible," you try to argue. "I mean, we have an absolute-zero knowledge about her, except for the fact that her left arm's full of butterfly tattoos."

Kurt rolls his eyes, then sits up when the said girl, who's wearing only a shirt and a pair of shirts, passes the dining area, trying to sneak out of the apartment quietly.

_Speaking of the butterfly devil._

"Good morning," Kurt calls out with a smirk, grabbing her attention. The girl turns around and smiles shyly at the two of you.

The girl returns his greeting, and you offer, "Would you like some toast and coffees?"

She hesitates for a second, but her grin broadens when you add, "I'm sure Santana wouldn't mind." She replies with a "thank you" as she sits down next to you.

"So, what's your name?" You ask girl-with-the-butterfly-arm as she pours herself a cup of coffee. You think that if Santana's planning to spend more nights with this girl, you should at least know some basic information about her. Or just her name, that would do.

"Um, you guys can call me Queenie." You nearly spit out the orange juice you're in the middle of sipping, while Kurt begins to cough loudly, like his toast went down the wrong pipe.

"Queenie" quirks an eyebrow. "Is my name really that bad?"

You quickly shake your head as you think of a good response, and she sighs. "Wait 'til you hear what my whole name is."

You reach out to pat Kurt's back as his coughs turn milder. "So, your name's spelled like Queen, the wife of a King _Queen_, right?"

She smiles and nods. "Actually, my whole first name is Queen Victoria. Lame, I know. Most of my friends call me Vicky, but apparently, Santana likes my _first_ first name more, so." She chuckles as you share a knowing look with Kurt.

"I think we'll just stick to Vicky," Kurt says, and you nod in agreement. "What do you do,_ Vicky_?"

"I'm still a student. I'm taking up Drama in NYU."

_Quinn 2.0, it is._

_A friendlier, less icier Quinn, that is._

Your conversation ends when Santana enters the dining room with a similar smile on her face.

Which disappears the moment her eyes lie on the blonde.

"Where the hell did you get that?" Santana starts quietly as she eyes the shirt Vicky is wearing.

"In your closet," she answers simply, missing the annoyance in Santana's voice.

That's when you examine the shirt and realize what the letters across Vicky's chest read.

_Yale._

You see Santana exhale loudly. "Take it off."

"What?" Vicky's smile disappears.

"Take. The fucking shirt. Off."

Vicky looks at you and Kurt, but you two are both sporting terrified faces just the same; so she figures following Santana is the right thing to do. She stands up, and Santana reaches out her arm, waiting for the other girl to hand her the shirt.

When she does, Santana clenches her fist and takes off her own shirt. She throws it to the blonde and, in a low but frightening voice, tells her, "Get out."

Vicky just stares at Santana in disbelief, so Santana repeats, in a heavier tone this time, "I said get out." The blonde blinks before putting Santana's shirt on and exiting the space.

"Call me when you're done being weird," the girl calls out.

"Don't count on it!" Santana shouts at the closed door.

Santana turns to you and Kurt, who're watching the entire scene with your mouths agape, and both of you drop your gazes down to your breakfast when she says coldly, "What are you two looking at?" You hear Santana's slow but heavy footsteps as she returns back to her room.

Kurt sighs. "Just when I thought we could actually drag her to Callbacks this weekend."

* * *

When you enter Santana's "room" (_"You call this a room, Hobbit?"_) after you've finished eating, you feel your heart break when you see her gloomily sitting on her bed, clutching her pillow girlfriend.

And you feel your heart practically shatter into pieces when you notice that her pillow's wearing the Yale top.

She looks up at you as you step closer to her. She's not even frowning, just staring at you with a straight face, appearing emotionless and so damn miserable at the same time. Her eyes are dry, like she hasn't slept in a week, but it's obvious that she's been crying lately, maybe too much.

You sit on the edge of her bed and swallow. "Santana." By that, you meant, "_Talk to me; you can tell me anything,_"but you're afraid that the girl might "_go all Lima Heights up yo' ass_" when she hears the pity in your voice if you uttered another syllable, so you thought and_ hoped_ that'd be enough.

Santana buries her face in the pillow for so long you thought this means she's shutting you out still.

But she looks up, her lips still touching the faded gray shirt.

"It's my fault, really," she starts. "It was just a slip of the tongue. I didn't mean to say it. I didn't even realize I said it."

She gazes at your face, which has confusion written all over it. "I told her that I… I told Quinn that I lov—"

Santana stops, her eyes tearing up again, and you nod to tell her that you understand.

"Eight weeks," Santana continues. "For eight weeks, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't spend a single second not thinking about her. I had to worry for eight weeks, and I can't even drink to forget because I'm afraid I'd call her. I mean, I even think about calling her when I'm sober, so I won't be surprised if drunk me would ride the next fucking train to New Haven. For eight fucking weeks, she doesn't talk to me. Not a single word. Then, she sends me one fucking text."

She exhales loudly, and you wish you could too. The atmosphere's just turned so depressing, even for someone who loves drama as much as you do.

"She gives me three words, Rach. Three words, but not those that I wanted her to say."

You see hear grip tightening around the girl-shaped pillow, "You know what she told me?" She doesn't give you time to answer that as she resumes, "She said, 'Are you sure?'"

_So that's why_, you think as you remember her phone flying across the room.

When you look back at her, you see her tears running freely down her cheek now

And, after a while, so are yours.

You hear her chuckle bitterly. "You know, when she first saw this thing, she laughed at me for hours." At first, you didn't know what she was talking about, then she continues, "I told her it was Kurt's idea. But I didn't admit that it does feel kind of nice to have an arm wrapped around your shoulder every night, a very_ soft_ one at that. Then she asked me if I could call it Q when I told her it didn't have a name."

You see her look away from the pillow and turn her eyes to you. She sighs. "Sorry. That's too much to take in, isn't it?"

However, you can't answer her. She lost you after the first word.

Santana apologized.

Santana apologized to_ you._

Santana is breaking down in front of you.

She just confessed and poured her heart out to_ you, _damn it.

You begin to wonder if it is really Santana who's right in front of you, and what the hell has Quinn done to the Santana you once knew.

* * *

After your talk, Santana slowly, gradually recovered. She's stopped bringing girls home, started hanging out with you and Kurt again, and her smirks even came back.

(At times, she smiles, though it doesn't reach her eyes.)

And Santana has stopped racing to get the door the second she hears someone knocking (though you still catch her looking over to see if Quinn's behind it anyway) when you thought the moment that will put an end to Santana's sullen self finally arrived.

Santana's having a shower while you are in the living room, on the phone with Kurt, debating on how you should spend the next weekend, when three soft knocks stop your discussion.

You're the one who stands up to get the door (because, really, _do you have any choice_?), and also the one whose eyes widen when you see the blonde standing in front of you.

"Quinn."

"Rachel."

You panic, then you realize you're still holding your phone against your ear and remember that Kurt's still on the other line. "I'll talk to you later," you say and you hang up immediately, not even waiting for Kurt to say goodbye.

During the silence that comes after, you take her appearance in. From afar, you think she could've looked so pretty. She took a break from floral dresses, you think, and wore a denim jacket over a printed shirt and jeans. Her blonde hair is slightly curled, and a bouquet of flowers—five stems of daisies, six stems of Forget-Me-Not's, and a single stem of mauve— is clutched in her right hand.

But, you think, if anyone's as close as you are to her know, they'd see the tired look in her mesmerizing eyes, as well as the dark circles underneath them. They'd see how forced her smile is, how hard the muscles in her face are being strained just to fake it.

Up close, Quinn doesn't look beautiful.

She looks troubled.

Her voice brings you away from your thoughts. "Is Santana here?" The way she asks is so soft, like she doesn't have any right to say it out loud.

For a second, you wish Kurt were here, but you realize he couldn't (thus wouldn't) have helped you much anyway.

You wish you have started a small talk with Quinn earlier, ask her about school and her life or even just the damn weather to give you more time to decide whether letting Quinn in is the best option you have.

_Too late, Berry._

"Yes," you finally breathed out. "Would you like to come inside?"

She nods once, and you step aside to let her in. You watch as she takes only a few steps, stops and stands near the door.

"Santana," you yell from your place, which is only mere inches away from Quinn's.

"What?" Santana shouts back, slightly echoing in the bathroom.

"Will you please come out for a minute?"

"Wait a sec, I'm changing!"

"Okay," you reply, then you add, "Please hurry!"

The bathroom door opens not long later, revealing Santana in a shirt, shorts, and slippers, with a towel wrapped around her hair. You hear her say, "Berry, this better be important, or I swear I'll—"

Santana stops in her tracks at the sight of her visitor. You see her freeze, and take that as a cue to move to the dining area. (Like the apartment's big enough for you not to hear their conversation from there, anyway.)

"Hey," you hear Quinn start, nervously.

You close your eyes, expecting Santana to scoff before answering with something like, "_Hey? Really, that's all you have to say after ignoring me for months, Q? Hey?!_"

But she just replies with a faint, "Hey yourself."

You look over where they are, and the whole scene is just so…awkward. They're both just standing there, a little more than two feet away from each other. And you can almost hear the gears in their heads turning, one of them trying to figure out what to say next, while the other's still processing what's happening.

As you turn away (and, a second later, you continue staring at them anyway because the happening's just too atypical and attention-grabbing not to watch), you hear Quinn clear her throat before uttering, "How are you?"

_Pffft, wrong question,_ you think.

How has Santana been? Let's see… Oh, alone. Miserable. Wretched. Crazy. Broken. And so damn pathetic.

That's how Santana—for fuck's sake, _Santana_—has been doing.

"Good." Your eyebrows rise in disbelief. "You?"

"Okay, I guess," Quinn replies. "I mean, it's not great, but it's okay. You know, the usual." She hands Santana the flowers, "These are for you."

"Thanks," Santana simply answers, with no emotion in her voice.

"I'm sorry if I went here unannounced," Quinn continues, because obviously, Santana's not the one who has a lot to say. "I've been trying to contact you for days, but you weren't answering my calls. I realized I should probably say what I want to say to you in person, anyway, so…"

You hear Santana let out a heavy sigh. "Why are you here, Quinn?"

"I just want to apologize. I know I've been acting like a jerk, but I just didn't know what to do." Quinn gazes down at the floor and slides her hands into her pockets. "It's not that I didn't like you back. It's just… You scared me, San. You caught me off guard."

"And that's it? I scared you? Was that so hard to tell me?" Santana finally raises her voice. "You could've just said that to me then instead of giving me absolutely nothing for months!"

You see Quinn open her mouth, then close it again. If you were her, you'd probably be speechless, too. (And that's saying something because, _hello_, you're Rachel freakin' Berry.)

"Then you went and asked me if I was sure about," Santana stops and runs her hand through her hair, "if I was sure about what I said, about what I felt. I never answered that, Quinn, but I was. I really meant what I said even if I didn't mean to say it."

"How about now?" Quinn asks. "What would you say if I ask you now?"

Santana looks taken aback, as if she wasn't expecting that question at all, and huffs before saying, "I'm… Now, I'm just not so sure anymore."

Quinn swallows and calmly nods, though tears have started forming in her eyes. "I really am sorry."

"I am, too," you hear Santana say flatly, and in a way that tells Quinn that the conversation is over. Quinn sighs and hesitates before turning around and starting to walk towards the door.

When she's halfway there, she stops and turns around. "I'll be here when you need me," she says before turning back to the door.

You watch Santana as she looks down and closes your eyes, because she knows that if she gets even just a glimpse of sadness in Quinn's hazel eyes, she'd be begging her to stay. You thought that was what she wanted, to be with Quinn, but maybe that's not what she needs right now. You smile weakly at Quinn when she gives you a small wave goodbye. You see Santana keep her eyes shut even moments after Quinn slid the door close.

After Santana has steadied her breathing, she turns to face you. You open your mouth, then close it slightly; you know that you don't need to speak. She already knows what you're going to say, but you know that she's not ready to hear it from you. You know that she doesn't want to talk about it. Not now.

You want to ask her why she threw away the chance to fix this, whatever this is, when she spent months sulking in her room, waiting for this.

But the look on her face that says, "Don't speak, don't follow me; I just need to be alone," stops you from doing so.

You barely hear her when she murmurs, "Don't." That's all she managed to say before rushing out of your sight. You know she doesn't want to let you see her break down.

The truth is you want to keep an eye on her, to run after her and keep her from locking herself into the restroom, to make sure she's okay. You know that rubbing her back as she cries won't make her feel better, but you want to do it anyway. You just want to let her know that you're there for her, but she told you not to follow her; and you understand why she needs space.

So you just sit there, thinking of things to say and do when Santana decides to come out and talk to her. You assume that you have plenty of time to come up with something; you know that Santana won't be emerging out of the bathroom door anytime soon.

* * *

_AN: I promise a happy ending! And maybe happy epilogues. Haha. :D See you in Chapter 3!_


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